


The Shadow of Paradise

by manic_intent



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, M/M, Pre-Canon, That pre-canon look at various things that happened before and during the game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:22:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27043432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: “I hear you killed a child.”Patroclus looked up, wary. The boy crossing the garden to the olive tree Patroclus sat beneath had hair the colour of ripened wheat and skin like pale, fine sand. Younger than Patroclus but already just as tall, Achilles was rumoured to be half Nereid, half human. He looked altogether human, though, which had been a bit of a disappointment. Patroclus had been expecting at least scales or blue hair. Something.“I did,” Patroclus said, keeping his tone even. It wouldn’t do to break down before a stranger. Myrmidons weren’t meant to be ruled intensely by emotions like regret. “Lyseon was a childhood friend, the son of a retainer.”
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 514





	The Shadow of Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> When I first read the Iliad and the Odyssey as a teen, I didn’t like Achilles. Never forget that it was his tantrum over an enslaved woman being taken away that led to Patroclus getting himself killed. Admittedly, everyone in Greek mythology is problematic. Either way, I wasn't really invested in helping Achilles at first, but Patroclus' unrelenting sadness every time I ran into him in Elysium got to me, and here we are...

“I hear you killed a child.” 

Patroclus looked up, wary. The boy crossing the garden to the olive tree Patroclus sat beneath had hair the colour of ripened wheat and skin like pale, fine sand. Younger than Patroclus but already just as tall, Achilles was rumoured to be half Nereid, half human. He looked altogether human, though, which had been a bit of a disappointment. Patroclus had been expecting at least scales or blue hair. Something. 

“I did,” Patroclus said, keeping his tone even. It wouldn’t do to break down before a stranger. Myrmidons weren’t meant to be ruled intensely by emotions like regret. “Lyseon was a childhood friend, the son of a retainer.”

“Was it an accident?” Achilles looked unarmed, but Patroclus knew better than to assume him harmless because of it. He’d seen Achilles on the practice grounds, fighting grown men twice his age for sport. _Sport_. 

“No. We were playing a game of coloured pebbles. I grew convinced that he was cheating and struck him in the head. He bled from his nose and died.” Patroclus stared at his hands. 

“Did he cheat?”

“How does that matter?” Patroclus snapped. He forced down his temper, baring his teeth into an imitation of a smile. His father had sent him here to serve the boy before him for the rest of his life as penance. A mercy, of sorts. Better than Patroclus had deserved. “I killed a friend out of rage. Were I not a prince, were my father not an Argonaut, were my grandfather not the King of Opus, I would be dead. Privilege is why I still live—a privilege I didn’t earn or deserve.” 

Achilles smiled. The tension in his shoulders eased as he walked over, sitting down beside Patroclus in the shade. “You are also a child, by the way even the Myrmidons deem such things.”

“Don’t apologise on my behalf. What I did was a grievous thing, unworthy of forgiveness.” 

“Does that mean you won’t try to earn it?” At the startled look Patroclus shot him, Achilles said, “I presume this child’s family has been well-cared for.”

“Nothing can replace their son, but my family will care for theirs.” 

“What about you?”

“I’ve been told that my penance is to live here as your companion,” Patroclus said. He couldn’t help but let out a snort. 

“You feel that you should suffer?” 

“Should the killer of a child not suffer?”

“So your father said. Yet my father told yours that such suffering is already inevitable. That Lord Hades will never forgive such a transgression, that no matter what you do for the rest of your life, an eternity in Tartarus will be your fate. Your punishment has merely been delayed.” 

“Suffering is already inevitable, so no atonement is necessary?” Patroclus let out a dry laugh. “Fine words. Save that everyone knows that your father is only on Phthia because he was exiled here for murdering his brother.” 

Having expected Achilles to bristle and storm off, Patroclus stiffened as Achilles laughed ruefully instead. “I know. It weighs on his mind. As it should. Death should be no easy thing to mete.” 

“You’re unexpected,” Patroclus said, thinking Achilles over. “I thought you’d be different.”

“How so?”

“You’re meant to be half Nereid, aren’t you? I thought you’d look less human.” 

Achilles huffed, looking away. “That’s just a rumour. I’ve never known my mother. She left when I was a boy, under circumstances that my father refuses to discuss.” 

“Oh,” Patroclus said, disappointed—then ashamed that he was disappointed, when Achilles tensed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it at all. I dislike gossip, myself. It must be hard. I’ll pray for her return.” An offering to Hera, perhaps, or Poseidon. The Nereids were known to be friendly to the former, and obey the latter. 

“You don’t need to do something like that to please me,” Achilles said, tense again. 

“Why would I be doing something like that to please anyone?” Patroclus said, bewildered. “I’ll do it because I want to.” 

Achilles stared at Patroclus. He averted his gaze, laughing. “You are also not what I expected. I dreaded having to have a companion who had killed a child. I felt you’d either be sullen and violent, or broken by remorse.” 

Stung, Patroclus said, “I do feel remorse. I wish that it never happened. If I could go back in time—”

“I didn’t say that you don’t feel it. Just that you haven’t let it define you—yet.” Achilles smiled, and there was the brash boy whom Patroclus had been told about. “That’s interesting.”

#

Child of a Nereid or not, Achilles had to be the son of _something_. “Why do you say so?” Achilles asked, laughing.

Patroclus shoved the waterskin into Achilles’ chest and pointed. “Normal people don’t get trained by centaurs.” From the practice yard, a creature out of legend eyed them sternly but made no comment, twitching his tail. 

Chiron’s horse-half had chestnut-brown hair and a long tail, with huge hooves and a bulk that had him towering over even the tallest Myrmidon. Powerful muscles packed his brown human half, over which a simple tunic appeared to have been worn as some sort of afterthought. The massive bow strung at his back looked more like a siege weapon—not even Achilles with his immense strength could string and draw it. 

“Father said that Chiron was a friend of the family,” Achilles said, as though everyone’s family had friends like this. Patroclus shook his head, about to object, only for Chiron to clear his throat pointedly and beckon them over. 

Gruelling as the centaur’s training regime was, Patroclus was grateful to be included—even if only by proximity, at Achilles’ request. Chiron hadn’t hidden the fact that he thought Patroclus unworthy of his tutelage. He watched Patroclus critically and never awarded him any praise. Patroclus didn’t mind. He knew he lacked Achilles’ talent. Everyone did. To be around someone as gifted as Achilles was both humbling and frustrating and satisfying.

Chiron called a break when Peleus called Achilles away to speak to him about something or other. As Patroclus collapsed into the shade of a tree, he poured a waterskin over his head, drenching his curls and dark skin. It didn’t provide as much relief from the heat and exertion as he hoped. As Patroclus shook himself, Chiron said, “You, boy. Come here.” 

Patroclus forced himself to his feet and trudged over, trying to school his expression and straighten his back, exhausted as he was. Chiron studied him, unreadable as always. The centaur had looked unemotional to Patroclus until Achilles told him to take cues from Chiron’s horse-half instead of his human face. Chiron planted his hooves on the ground, his tail flicking idly—his version of calm.

“Do you need something from me, sir?” Patroclus asked, trying to sound polite. 

Chiron sniffed. He looked away to the wide stairs that led up to the villa. “I hear you killed another human boy in anger. A child younger than you were.”

“I did,” Patroclus said, lifting his chin. 

“Is it as unforgivable among your people as it is among mine?” 

“Unfortunately not,” Patroclus said, and bit down on his lower lip as Chiron glanced sharply at him. 

Chiron shifted his weight on his hooves. “Boy or not, you would have been driven from the herd. No children would you have been allowed to have in turn. You would have had to spend the rest of your life reflecting on your sins.” 

“Sounds just.” 

“Do you think on your sins?”

About to tell Chiron that it was none of his business, Patroclus found himself saying instead, “Not as often as I would like.” 

Chiron huffed. “You are honest, and I think you have the capacity to be wise. You have the makings of a fine companion.”

“For Achilles?” Patroclus asked. Why did everything in Phthia seem to revolve around Achilles? “He’s a gifted warrior, but why does everyone treat him as though he were a son of Ares? Why did you leave your herd to train a human?” 

“A prophecy took me away from my herd, though I feel their absence keenly,” Chiron said, his hooves shifting and dancing on the dirt for a moment before they went still. “Achilles will become one of the most famous warriors that this world has ever seen. He will burn his name into history, even after his bones are dust. If so, he will die young, and in agony and grief. Or he will live a long life, in peace and obscurity, destined to be forgotten.” 

“You _want_ him to die young and in agony?” Patroclus said, horrified.

“No. This business about fate, of prophecies, of destinies… I spit on it,” Chiron said, his tail swishing roughly against his flanks. “Perhaps my training will help him change his fate. Perhaps it will make things worse. I prefer to believe that it can do the former.”

“Isn’t it pointless to fight destiny?” 

“Destiny is not as set in stone as you think, boy. It is merely another word for the whim of the Gods, who are all cruel beyond measure. Perhaps someday you will see this for yourself.”

“It wouldn’t be so bad to live in peace and obscurity,” Patroclus said. The courtyard had a sweeping view of the sea, brilliant and gleaming against the crags and the beach, dotted with fishing boats and Myrmidon ships at rest. 

“Some would call that cowardice.” 

“People who would call something like that cowardice are liars or monsters,” Patroclus said, “for all good men should desire to live in peace. What purpose does bloody conflict serve but to create suffering, a suffering that amuses only Gods and monsters? I refuse to live for anyone’s amusement.” 

“Interesting,” Chiron said, his tail going still against his hindquarters.

#

Achilles’ mother returned, with so little fanfare that Patroclus was sure that his occasional prayers to Hera (and once to Poseidon) likely weren’t the cause. Thetis wasn’t human at all—that much was clear to everyone. She looked human, but no human woman in their world other than the fabled Amazons could’ve been blessed to have such agency in their own lives. To leave powerful husbands and sons and suffer no consequences, with her absence itself punishment and rebuke.

Thetis greeted Chiron warmly, ignored Peleus, and resettled into Achilles’ life like a brooding hen with a chick. Achilles seemed too surprised to be resentful. A boy his age, on the cusp of becoming a man, should’ve been more annoyed to be mothered so relentlessly. Or so Patroclus told him. 

“My father’s afraid of her,” Achilles said as they shared a simple lunch of bread, olives, and cheese in the shadow of a wall during a break in their training.

“He must have offended her somehow.” Gods and near-Gods and their ilk tended to be prone to offence. 

“I think so too. I’ve tried talking to her about it, but she won’t tell me what went wrong between them. Whatever it is, she still bears him a grudge.” 

“It’s probably over you,” Patroclus said as he tore into a chunk of cheese. 

“Me?” 

“That prophecy about your life. Your mother probably wanted one thing, and your father the other.” Which mother wouldn’t want a long and peaceful life for her son?

“That’s what you think,” Achilles said, chuckling. “You don’t know my father all that well. Besides, shouldn’t I have a say in my own life?” 

“You want to die young?” 

“To be remembered forever? Why not?” 

Patroclus sniffed, shoving his elbow into Achilles’ ribs and making him yelp. “You only say that because you don’t know what it means to die.” 

“It won’t matter at that point, would it? After all, I’d be dead.”

“Death isn’t final.” 

“Then I’d spend the rest of existence in Elysium, fighting one glorious battle after another among my peers,” Achilles said, popping an olive into his mouth. “Doesn’t sound so bad to me.” 

“Is that what you want out of your existence? Endless war?” Patroclus tried not to be disappointed, but it rose in him anyway.

Achilles frowned at him. “What else is there? What’s wrong with that?” 

“It’s your life,” Patroclus said. The life that any Myrmidon aspired to have. Glorious, violent, and presumably short—with an endless hereafter steeped in similar violence. 

“What would you prefer?” 

“I don’t want my life to revolve around killing people.” 

“Isn’t that what we’re trained to do? It’s part of being a Myrmidon. A soldier.” 

“I don’t think it’s anything to be proud of,” Patroclus said. 

Achilles shot him an incredulous stare. “How can you say that?” he demanded hotly, his temper waking. “Are you saying that you aren’t proud of who you are? Of the rest of us?” Are you—”

“Peace, peace.” Patroclus held up his hands in a show of surrender. “That’s not what I meant. Achilles, have you killed anyone before?”

“Well no, but I presume that might be a matter of time.” 

“Would you hold them as they die? Watch the light fade from their eyes, knowing you did that to them? That all they were and could be had been turned to ash by your hands? Do all of that and feel happy? Rather than regret?” 

Achilles sobered. “This is about Lyseon? Pat, not even his parents blame you anymore. You were both children.” 

“They _should_ blame me. They should curse my name for the rest of their lives.” Patroclus knotted his fingers together. “I just think there’s nothing glorious about killing people. Doing what you must to protect others, sure. Saving people, that’s great. But to kill for joy, for the sake of killing? There’s nothing good about that.” 

Achilles flushed angrily. Then, as he often did of late, Achilles studied Patroclus’ face keenly and calmed down. “Perhaps there’s something in what you say. Chiron mentioned a similar sentiment to me before.” 

“Murder appears more taboo among his people than ours. At least between centaurs and centaurs.” The way it should be. Patroclus began to say more and sat up straight as a shadow fell over them. Thetis regarded Patroclus with a blank expression that smoothed into something closer to tenderness as she looked to Achilles. Tall and beautiful, with long black hair that she left loose over her shoulders and dressed in simple clothes without jewellery, Thetis had an ageless, unsettling air about her. 

“Chiron says your break is over,” Thetis said. 

“Yes, mother.” Achilles rose to his feet. “You needn’t have come out here to find us—you could’ve sent a servant.” 

Thetis frowned at him. “Why would I send someone else if I wanted to find my son?” 

“I… yes. I’ll get back to practice.” Achilles headed quickly back up to the sparring grounds. Hoping to follow without drawing further notice, Patroclus lowered his eyes and walked around Thetis, only for her to touch his arm. He bit down on a gasp—her fingers were icy. 

“Friend of Achilles,” Thetis said, her unblinking dark eyes boring into his. “A word.” 

“Of course,” Patroclus said, his heart sinking. Thetis began to walk down the stairs, steep flights that led down to the beach below. The wind flicked her hair into a mane around her blank face as she walked barefoot from the stone to the sand, then ankle-deep into the surf. With a full-body shudder, Thetis’ hands twitched into claws, then went loose by her flanks. 

“My son’s doom has something to do with you,” Thetis said, looking past the surf toward the deep blue of the sea. 

“What? How so?” Patroclus asked, aghast. 

“I can’t see that far. Or that clearly. Perhaps you will avenge him. Or die with him.” 

“Or be the cause of it,” Patroclus said, guessing at Thetis’ thoughts. 

She smiled, her teeth growing sharp against her lip. “Or be the cause of it,” Thetis echoed. 

“I would never hurt him,” Patroclus said, though even as he said this, he knew it to be an impossible promise. People hurt each other even when they never meant it. “He might still choose to have a long and obscure life.” 

Thetis threw back her head and laughed, a mournful, moaning sound, like an evening wind curling over the waves. “Would that he was not a boy,” she whispered, “and yet. Perhaps things would have been the same.” 

Patroclus waited, but when Thetis said nothing more, he excused himself with a mumble and threaded back up the cliff. Achilles waited anxiously for him at the top of the stairs. “What did she say to you?” Achilles asked as he got a good look at Patroclus’ face. 

“Nothing of consequence,” Patroclus lied. 

“Would she call you down to the beach for small talk?” Achilles asked with a frown. “Pat, tell me what she said. If she’s making trouble for you, I’ll—”

“You’d what, try and drive her off? Even your father’s afraid of her. Besides, she’s your mother. She’s…” Patroclus trailed off, shivering. “Never mind, it changes nothing. Let’s not keep Chiron waiting.’

He would not be the doom of his closest friend, could not. Patroclus swore that during the night on his name, and on the names of the Gods he knew. As Patroclus burned the offering by the sea, he could hear the echo of Thetis’ laughter over the waves, made harsh by her grief.

#

“Your mother wants you to hide in the court of Skyros with King Lycomedes?” Patroclus asked as Achilles located him practising archery in a quiet part of the drill grounds. “Makes sense. War’s on the horizon with Troy.” The Myrmidons had been preparing to muster out for some time. “I’m not sure what King Lycomedes can do, though. Skyros will likely have to send soldiers as well, given their existing alliances.”

“She wants me to hide in Skyros disguised as one of the King’s daughters,” Achilles said. He glared as Patroclus burst out laughing. “It’s not funny.”

“No, I mean. You? Dressed up as a woman?” Patroclus squinted at Achilles, grinning. Achilles was a beautiful youth, sure, but there was no hiding his height or his powerful frame. “Sorry, I just—” Laughter shook out of Patroclus again, leaving him breathless and leaning against a tree.

“If I’m going, you’re going too,” Achilles said, scowling. 

“Me?” Patroclus made a show of running his fingers through the beard he was cultivating. A beard that still eluded Achilles’ best efforts. “I’ll ruin everything—I’ll make an even less convincing woman than you.” 

“You’d go as a bodyguard. Mother agreed to that much.” 

“Wait,” Patroclus said, blinking. “You _agreed_ to this? Hiding out the war in Skyros as a woman? I thought you’d want to go to war.”

“I haven’t agreed,” Achilles said, throwing up his hands with a helpless gesture. “I told her I didn’t care if I died.” 

“Don’t say that,” Patroclus said. The thought of Achilles dying tore at him. Patroclus could see why Thetis was growing desperate. Glory was built on wars like the one that was brewing—glory and death. “You _should_ go. We’ll both go.” 

“Don’t you wish to go to war?” Achilles asked, surprised. 

“I don’t care about it either way. It’s terrible what’s been done, stealing away a woman against her will, but to commit everyone to war because of that? For so many people to have to die because of one person? Surely there’s some other way.” 

“The most beautiful woman in the world,” Achilles said with a wry smile. “A daughter of Zeus.” 

“I don’t think that was the problem. I do recall the problem was King Odysseus making every suitor of hers swear an oath to defend her husband, Menelaus. Who happened in turn to be the King of Sparta, our most warlike nation.” The nation most likely to respond with a declaration of total war once diplomacy failed. 

“Regardless of the reason behind it…” Achilles trailed off, studying Patroclus closely. “You don’t want to fight?” 

“Not for something like this,” Patroclus said, which was both true and untrue. Like any Myrmidon, Patroclus didn’t shy from a fight, even one that he felt unworthy of his time. Yet he’d sworn an oath—that he wouldn’t be the cause of Achilles’ doom. No matter what the Gods intended. If he could singlehandedly force Achilles’ fate into that of a life of peace, didn’t that work just the same? 

“All right,” Achilles said, though he looked disappointed. “I’ll tell my mother that I agree to her plan. If you don’t want to go to war, then neither will I.”

#

Patroclus didn’t know whether it was magic, makeup, or the slow loss of his sanity, but under Thetis’ hands, Achilles went from being a handsome young man into a stunning young woman. Granted, one who’d scowled through disembarking at Skyros, but Patroclus couldn’t help but gawk at Achilles. As they walked down the gangway, Achilles hissed, “I knew it. I look ridiculous, don’t I?”

“Hmm?” 

“You’ve been staring at me since I emerged from Mother’s cabin dressed as, well, like this,” Achilles grumbled, picking at his peplos. There was no hiding his voice, smooth and deep—Thetis instructed Achilles not to speak unless spoken to. It’d made her son glower at her, but under her blank and unsettling stare, Achilles had looked away and said nothing. 

“Well, uhm.” Patroclus cleared his throat, glad for his dark skin, which wouldn’t betray his flush. “You look. Fine. Surprisingly fine? I don’t know what your mother did.” 

“Really?” Achilles peered at his reflection in a nearby fountain. He glanced back at Patroclus, puzzled. “It’s just a bit of paint and powder. I don’t think I look much different. Maybe it’s an illusion that only affects other people? Why would you be included?” 

“I don’t know,” Patroclus said. Achilles’ lips looked fuller and redder, his eyes larger and darker. The wool draping cunningly hid his muscular arms and thighs, somehow softening his powerful shoulders. No hiding his height, but that only made Achilles more beautiful, somehow. Patroclus looked away. He’d felt the occasional stirrings around Achilles as they’d grown up, emotions he’d suppressed, mindful of his role. Patroclus was Achilles’ squire, nothing more. It was the only way he could atone. 

Achilles gave him another confused look, only to be hailed ahead by his mother. They made a strange, slow procession up to the palace. Patroclus tuned out as Thetis spoke to King Lycomedes, who seemed to accept her story that Achilles was some sort of Amazonian warrior-daughter who needed to learn social graces. Patroclus looked curiously at Lycomedes’ seven daughters instead, wondering how Achilles was going to be fitting in. Several of them were beautiful enough, and of marriageable age. Maybe this wouldn’t be as painful an ordeal as Achilles—now ‘Pyrrha’—thought it’d be. 

As Patroclus followed Achilles as his ‘bodyguard’ through the Palace, one of the princesses said, “You don’t need to scowl so terribly, Pyrrha. Life here won’t be as bad as you think.” 

Achilles managed a wan smile. “You’re kind to say so, ah. Lady Deidamia, was it?”

“Please, no titles among us. We’re meant to be friends,” said another of the princesses, and Deidamia nodded vigorously. “By the way, I think it’s incredible. Being Amazonian, that is. I don’t know what the problem is. I wish _I_ knew how to use a spear or a sword. Besides, as the daughter of a Nereid, surely you won’t be lacking for suitors. At worst, you could always just go to Sparta and challenge some of the men there to a fight—you’d get married in no time.” 

“Phaedra!” Deidamia hissed, then blinked as Achilles laughed, hearty and loud. Behind him, Patroclus winced—surely that would’ve just betrayed what Achilles was—but all the princesses laughed along, infected by his mirth. 

“I could teach you how to use a sword or a spear if you like,” Achilles offered. 

“That’s not what you’re here for,” Patroclus said, grimacing. There’d be no hiding who Achilles was if the Greek forces descended on Skyros only to find a spear trainer among the women. 

Phaedra glared at Patroclus, even as Deidamia said, “Are you a bodyguard or a minder? Know your place.” 

Achilles visibly bristled, but before he could snap at the women, Patroclus lowered his gaze. “Forgive my tone, your Highness. I spoke out of concern but also out of turn.”

“Aegeus is a friend,” Achilles said, though he’d made an effort to scale back his temper. “I value his counsel.” 

“Well,” said one of the other daughters with a forced laugh, “I do believe it was Lady Thetis who willed this upon us all, wasn’t it? We should abide by it. I’ve heard that she is a favourite companion of Hera’s. Pyrrha, forgive me, but I have a hundred, no, a thousand questions about your mother.” 

“Oh, well, I don’t know what I’ll be able to answer,” Achilles said, which thankfully pushed the conversation to safer shores. 

Patroclus was given a servant’s room close to the women’s wing, and ate with the other house guards—they seemed amused that a Myrmidon had been tasked with protecting Thetis’ ‘daughter’. Patroclus ignored their jests and retired early to take a long walk in the gardens attached to the wing. Set on a cliff, the palace had a sprawling view of Skyros. As Patroclus admired it, a soft step behind him had him turn sharply, hand tightening on his spear. 

Achilles muttered under his breath as he trudged through the grass to Patroclus’ side. “I hate this garment,” Achilles said. 

Patroclus chuckled, though he glanced around to ensure that they were alone. “What’s wrong with it? It looks good on you.” 

Achilles glowered at him. “I’m glad that you find this all so amusing.”

“Do you see me laughing?” Patroclus asked. Achilles blinked, at which point Patroclus regretted what he’d said. He _should_ have laughed. Joked around like the house guards, until this awkward tension he felt around Achilles faded and they were fast friends again, the way they’d been for years. Patroclus coughed. “Do the others suspect anything?” 

“I don’t know. I did get asked some odd questions by Deidamia.” 

“Like what?” 

“She thought you and I were… Ah. I’d rather not say,” Achilles said, embarrassed. “Frankly, I don’t think this is going to work out as well as Mother thinks it will.” 

“Neither,” Patroclus said. Particularly since Thetis disappeared once it was done. The house guards had mentioned something about seeing her walk into the sea and turn into a dolphin, but Patroclus wasn’t sure how much of that was real. “Surely it won’t be so bad. You, surrounded by beautiful princesses all day.” 

“You think they’re beautiful?” Achilles set his jaw. 

“Aren’t they? Especially Deidamia.” 

“I…” Achilles’ hands curled tightly. He forced a laugh. “If you like her, I could… I could help you talk to her. You’re still a prince, exile or not.” 

“Hold on,” Patroclus said, chuckling. “I didn’t say I was looking to get married. What’s wrong with admiring a beautiful person, the way you might admire a beautiful painting? You don’t see me making off with that nice vase in the throne room, do you?” 

Achilles relaxed. His next laugh was familiar—joyous and warm. “The one depicting Poseidon’s horses? I liked that too. Perhaps we could ask the King for it when we leave.” 

“Whenever that might be,” Patroclus said, though he had his doubts. Hiding in Skyros for years—surely that wasn’t going to be possible.

#

Men weren’t allowed to join in the women-only feast for Dionysius, but Achilles’ various attempts to beg off attending were cheerfully disregarded by his hosts. Patroclus played a couple of games of dice with the house guards, but soon got bored and went for a walk. He trained with the Skyros guards during the day, but they weren’t much of a challenge for a Myrmidon, let alone one trained by Chiron. As he stood on the beach and looked out over the sea, wondering where the centaur now was, Achilles said, “There you are.”

Patroclus turned, then hurried over to help Achilles stumble down the last few steps. “You are so drunk,” Patroclus said, laughing. “How did you get down here without breaking your neck?” 

“By the usual way,” Achilles said, leaning heavily into Patroclus’ grip. “Besides, I can’t die like that. I’m either meant to die of old age and in obscurity or in battle, aren’t I?” 

“You think the Gods will intervene if you slip off a cliff? That maybe Hera will catch you if you fall? You—” Patroclus tensed up as Achilles pressed closer, kissing him hard on the mouth. Patroclus jerked back with a gasp, shocked. “Achilles!” 

“Don’t you think I’m as pretty as the others?” Achilles whispered, his hands clenched in Patroclus’ tunic. “Isn’t that why you stare?” 

“I, well, I…” Patroclus caught Achilles by his thick hair as Achilles leaned in. “You’re drunk.” 

“Deidamia called it liquid courage.” Achilles breathed unsteadily. “Said I might need it. If I wanted to risk everything.” 

“What?” 

“Our friendship, what we already have… and yet. I think this is worth risking it for.” Achilles said, looking keenly into Patroclus’ eyes. “If I have to live as someone I’m not and be forgettable for the rest of my life… Pat, if you’re there as well, I wouldn’t mind. I wouldn’t mind it at all.” 

“Achilles,” Patroclus whispered, his heart growing full. He gave in, loosening his grip on Achilles’ hair. They leant in together, resulting in a clumsy, awkward kiss that was more teeth than anything. Chuckling, holding each other, they kissed on the beach, teaching each other tenderness.

#

Lycomedes’ court was boring by even Patroclus’ vague memory of life in his grandfather’s court. Oddly enough, Lycomedes allowed all his daughters to attend court with him, and sometimes took counsel from them. Being the guest of the princesses, Achilles had been persuaded to attend court as well. Which meant Patroclus standing guard at a door, struggling to bite down his yawns.

The latest supplicant was a peddler of some sort, dressed in a plain tunic. A short man, if muscular, smiling and bobbing as he laid out gifts for Lycomedes’ daughters across a table. Something about wanting preferential trade status. Jewellery, women’s clothes, and, of all things, a fine spear. Patroclus stared at it, puzzled, as the women cooed over the presents. Achilles hung back politely, though he glanced at the spear.

The blare of alarm trumpets startled Patroclus out of his reverie. As he looked around wildly, the princesses screamed, fleeing toward their father and the guards beside the throne. Achilles stood his ground, grabbing the spear and snapping, “Pat, to _me_.” 

Patroclus was at Achilles’ side before he could think, scanning the exits. An invasion? Or armed bandits? Or—

The peddler laughed. He straightened, his bearded face creasing into a wry smile as he looked between Achilles and Patroclus. “Pat, is it? Short for Patroclus, perhaps, the exiled prince of Opus? Sent by his father, Menoetius the Argonaut, to be the companion of Achilles of Phthia?” 

Achilles blinked, then bared his teeth in fury. “Blackguard. A damnable trick. Who are you?” 

The peddler bowed. “I am Odysseus, King of Ithaca. Tell me, young Achilles. What sort of Myrmidon hides among women, when his people prepare to go to war in his place?” 

Achilles advanced on Odysseus, gripping his spear, his face contorting in rage. Patroclus grabbed his wrist quickly to still him. “Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere less public,” Patroclus said. Under his grip, Achilles tensed, then relaxed, lowering his spear. 

Odysseus studied Patroclus curiously but allowed himself to be led to an adjoining antechamber. “How did you know we were here?” Patroclus asked. 

“Oracles. Useful in their way. Not always this specific, mind you, but I appreciated it in this instance.” Odysseus looked annoyingly smug, though he was careful to put Patroclus between himself and Achilles. “Believe me, I understand not wanting to go, and this is a mess of my own making. Yet it’s been prophesied that the war cannot be won without you, Achilles. So here I am.” 

Before Achilles could speak, Patroclus said, “Lady Thetis foretold that—”

“So I’ve heard,” Odysseus interrupted, sobering. “This is not an easy thing I ask of either of you. I wish I didn’t have to, that I’m not about to send thousands of men your age to their deaths because of something I thought clever years ago. If I could, I’d go back to that day and slap myself in the face.”

“Yet here you are,” Achilles growled. 

Odysseus inclined his head. “Some of us lead long lives, and some lead short ones. Is it always the long life that is the better life? Isn’t it better to live as fiercely as you can, doing what you want? Rather than waste the time you’ve been given pretending to be someone you aren’t? Fear is for the weak, Achilles.”

“Fear is for the weak,” Achilles echoed. He glanced down at the spear he still held, then at Patroclus, a hopeful question in his eyes. 

“If you go, I’ll go,” Patroclus said, though he wished he could say otherwise. If he’d refused to leave, perhaps Achilles would’ve stayed, but what then? Patroclus would rather die himself than see Achilles grow old and bitter, weighed down by regret, poisoned by what-could-have-beens. 

Achilles smiled at him, with a joyous, savage smile, one worthy of Ares himself. “Then, to war,” he said.

#

Nine years of war. Not just on Troy, but on Troy’s allies in Asia Minor and beyond. How was all this because of a single woman, even if she were the daughter of Zeus? Surely everyone could see that this madness and death and slaughter was no more than a mass sacrifice. Only the Gods loved blood and darkness like this. They could play out their ugly sport with thousands of lives, across dozens of cities and islands. Support both sides, and glut themselves of souls in the process. Even with their own children. On the battlefield, not even the sons of the Gods were safe.

The allied armies grew hungry, then tired, then desperate. As the rumblings of mutiny spread, it grew apparent that somehow, it was Achilles who was holding them in place. It wasn’t just the Trojans who grew to fear Achilles’ fury. Each death to his name chipped away something in Achilles. Turning him closer and closer to his mother—something elemental, both more and less than human. Each night Patroclus would take him to bed and try to salvage something, but there was no saving anyone. His hands were just as bloody. 

As they weighed anchor after the sack of Lyrnessus, Patroclus found himself unable to sleep. He walked out to the deck of the flagship, rubbing his eyes, and froze as he saw a wild-haired woman in a simple tunic standing at the prow. No one on the night watch noticed her presence. Steeling himself, Patroclus walked over to Thetis’ side.

“Lady Thetis,” he said. 

“Friend of Achilles,” Thetis whispered, watching Lyrnessus burn. 

“Would you like me to wake your son?” 

“Let him sleep.” Thetis’ hands flattened on the rail of the ship. “You stink of death.” 

“As do we all.” 

“You always have. Even before Achilles did.” 

“Yes,” Patroclus said, dropping his gaze. “I killed a child when I was a boy. He was a friend of mine.”

“Ah-h-h. That’s why the scent lingered. The blood of a child.” Thetis pursed her lips. “It is coming, I think. The doom of my son.” 

“Now?” Patroclus asked, looking around sharply. 

“Friend of Achilles,” Thetis said, ignoring Patroclus’ unease, “do you consider me a good mother?” 

“Well, I…” Patroclus trailed off, surprised. 

“Speak truly. I will not be offended.” 

“You did what you could for him. Sent Chiron to train him.” Patroclus paused, but when Thetis didn’t deny it, he said, “Tried to hide him. It is already more than what many mothers would do out of love for their child.” 

“When Achilles was born,” Thetis said, staring at the sea, “I dipped him in ambrosia, and set him on a pyre to burn away his mortality. His father interrupted me, thinking I was trying to kill him, and I abandoned them both in my rage. I should have taken Achilles with me instead. Hidden him in the heart of the sea. He would have grown up knowing none of this. Not war. Not you.” 

“Lady Thetis—”

“For what it’s worth,” Thetis said, glancing at Patroclus, “I don’t believe you will betray him. It doesn’t matter. If you are the reason that he dies, I will never forgive you. Not in this world or the next.”

#

“Did something come up?” Achilles said, when he woke to find Patroclus sitting on the edge of their shared bunk instead of curled against him. The ship rocked beneath them, already on its way back to Troy.

“Your mother appeared on the ship last night,” Patroclus said, after a pause. 

Achilles sat up quickly. “Is she still here?” 

“No. She left. After telling me that I stink.” 

Achilles stared at Patroclus, then he laughed and made a show of sniffing the back of Patroclus’ neck. “Maybe she has a point.” 

“Of blood,” Patroclus said, though he smiled wryly. “A child’s blood, to be precise.” 

“That? Pat, we’ve soaked ourselves in so much blood these past nine years, I’m surprised that she’s able to pick up anything like that.” 

“And that’s a good thing, is it?” Patroclus exhaled. “This war, it’s never going to end.” 

“It could. Troy could surrender Helen.” Achilles kissed the nape of Patroclus’ throat. “Or perhaps one of the Gods will strike her dead and put us all out of our misery.” 

Patroclus shuddered. “Doubt that will happen. They’re all having far too much fun playing us against each other.” 

“Mm.” Achilles yawned, tiring of the conversation. He slipped his hand up Patroclus’ thigh, only for Patroclus to catch his wrist. ”Pat?”

“I should tell you something. Years ago, before all this, when I first met your mother on that beach? She said that I would have something to do with your doom, but she couldn’t tell what it was. She said maybe I’d end up avenging you. Or I’d die with you. Or…” Patroclus swallowed. “Or I might be the cause of it.” 

Achilles tensed up, then he laughed. “Is that’s what’s been eating you lately?” 

_She thinks it’s close_ , Patroclus nearly said. “I’m fairly sure she was tempted to drown me that day.”

“By all accounts, my mother was once tempted to drown my father as well, and she loved him enough at one point to have a child with him. I’m still not quite sure how that happened.” Achilles nuzzled Patroclus’ throat. “Pat, I know you. You won’t ever do anything to hurt me.” 

“So it must be one of the other two?” Tears stung his eyes. “I don’t mind if it’s the second, but the first? To live on without you? How could I do such a thing?” 

“Death is inevitable,” Achilles said. He kissed the edges of Patroclus’ eyes, pressing the tears against his lips. “I hope it’s the second. But if it’s the first, well. I’ll see you in Elysium, then. We’ll drink ambrosia together. Fight Heracles in the Coliseum. Challenge Theseus to a duel.” 

“Don’t make the afterlife sound that fun,” Patroclus said. He turned and kissed Achilles, climbing into his lap as Achilles chuckled and shifted to make room. “You’re the worst. I was trying to have a serious conversation with you about your mother and fate and all that.”

“You’re the one sitting in my lap,” Achilles shot back, rolling his hips, the stiffness between his thighs thickening as he pressed against Patroclus’ rump. 

“I’m surprised I’m in your lap,” Patroclus said, kissing Achilles on the forehead, “given how taken you were with that princess we brought out of the last city we looted. Briseis, was it? A great beauty.” 

“Did you see her eyes? Like she’d stab me in the heart if she could. Everyone else around her bowed down to us after their surrender, but not her.” 

“You did kill her parents and her brothers in front of her.” Patroclus had been worried about that. “She’ll stab you in your sleep.” 

“She’d have to reach over you to do that,” Achilles said, pulling off Patroclus’ tunic and kissing down his chest. “The bed might get crowded, and then we’ll all wake up.” 

“You mean, assuming I’m still there instead of her?” Patroclus said and chuckled as Achilles growled and bit him hard. “Ouch! You beast. That was a joke.” 

“A bad one. No one will replace you in my bed.” Achilles groped around for the jar of oil, unstoppering it as he stared hard at Patroclus. “Nor will I allow me to be replaced in yours.”

“All right, all right,” Patroclus said soothingly, trying to kiss away Achilles’ simmering temper. It sat closer and closer to the surface with each day, each death. Grew uglier and uglier each time it reared its head. Achilles relaxed reluctantly by degrees, slicking Patroclus open with impatient fingers, then rubbing the rest on his cock. He growled and squirmed as Patroclus sat on his shaft, his hands resting on Patroclus’ hips and Patroclus drew his lower lip between his teeth to stifle his cry. Not that he needed to. Nine years had made just about everyone under their command and beyond aware of what they were to each other. 

Patroclus seated himself with the ease of practice, his beard brushing against Achilles’ jaw as they kissed, clawing at each other. Maybe this desperate passion between them was another one of the Gods’ games, played in miniature. Between Aphrodite and Hera, perhaps. Or Aphrodite and Ares. Whatever it was, Patroclus had long stopped caring. He gave himself to the urgency he felt as he rode Achilles roughly against the bunk, not bothering to wait for his body to relax into the fit. Achilles snarled and bit him as he did, bucking to meet him just as ruthlessly, his fingers scouring marks down Patroclus’ back. 

“You feel so good like this,” Achilles growled, digging a stinging track down to Patroclus’ hips. “Tight around me, that heat—”

“Give me more, then,” Patroclus said with a challenging grin, just as caught up in Achilles’ fervour here as he was beside him on the battlefield. “Show me—aah!” Patroclus yelped as Achilles picked him up and slammed him into the hull of the ship, hitching his thighs around Achilles’ waist as he bore his weight, thrusting roughly. Patroclus threw back his head, clutching at Achilles’ shoulders, his cries echoing through the cabin. Like this, with Achilles shoving in as deeply as he could go, Patroclus fell headlong into release in little time, making a mess of Achilles’ tunic. Achilles laughed, slowing down, swallowing Patroclus’ gasps with breathless kisses. Taking him until he grew hard once more.

#

“Achilles, please,” Patroclus said, kneeling before Achilles and clasping his hands tightly. “They need you. The Trojans are close to burning our ships!”

“Let them burn,” Achilles said. His face stayed in the same mask of cold rage that it had settled in since Agamemnon had taken Briseis away. 

Briseis, who’d struck up an unexpected friendship with Achilles and Patroclus after revealing herself to be a genius at petteia, one of Achilles' favourite games. Her need for vengeance looked to have cooled over time—at least against Achilles. “This war was not your fault,” she liked to say now and then when Patroclus touched on the subject. “Would that we had met in a better way.” 

She’d begged them not to let Agamemnon take her. 

Shouts of alarm from beyond the tents—one of the ships was burning. Patroclus stared into Achilles’ eyes. “Achilles. If you love me—”

“Don’t. Don’t say it like that,” Achilles said, his rage touching his gaze as he looked back at Patroclus. “Don’t test me.” 

“This anger of yours…” Patroclus trailed off. He got to his feet, picking up his spear and shield closer to the door. “If you’re not going, I am. But if the war ends this way, just because you’re wroth with a man over a woman? Don’t speak to me if you see me in Elysium.” 

“Patroclus.” The anger faded from Achilles’ face. “You can’t go out there. Not without me.” 

“How will you stop me?” Patroclus shot back. “Will you fight me here? You’d have to fight me to the death, if so. It’d be the same.”

Achilles looked away, setting his jaw. “The others won’t follow you.” 

“They’d follow _you_ ,” Patroclus said, his gaze going from Achilles to the rack of armour behind him. To the full helmet. “Or. You could lend me your armour. I could lead a charge–the Trojans won’t be expecting that.” 

“We look nothing alike,” Achilles said, with a frown.

“It’s dark outside. All that anyone will see is what they want to see.” 

When Achilles fell silent, Patroclus exhaled. He made as though to exit the tent, and Achilles said, “Wait. Yes. All right. But promise me—you’d do this only until they retreat. After that, come back to me.” 

“Fine,” Patroclus said. He walked over to the rack. Achilles stared at as he unbuckled his breastplate, then exhaled and approached to help. 

“Pat,” Achilles began once they were done. 

“Don’t talk to me again until you’ve stopped sulking like a child,” Patroclus said, pulling on Achilles’ helmet. He picked up his friend’s spear and shield, stalking out of the tent.

#

Waking up on soft grass in a warm field was a shock. Patroclus blinked awake and sat up sharply with a gasp. His clothes had changed to a rich tunic that he didn’t remember owning. The spear by his side was gold-tipped. As Patroclus glanced beside him at a limpid pool, his reflection looked far less gaunt than it should have been, and a glowing blue laurel encircled his head.

“What in the…?” Patroclus murmured. 

“It’s a shock for everyone at first.” 

Patroclus turned sharply, jumping to his feet with the spear in hand. He gawked. “Protesilaus! But you’re–”

“Dead? Yes. As you are.” Protesilaus walked over with a warm smile. He looked no different from the last time Patroclus had seen him—tall and fierce-faced, leaping from his ship only to be killed by Hector. 

Speaking of which. Patroclus glanced down at his chest, then looked back at the endless, unnatural sky. The memories were coming back. “Who got you?” Protesilaus asked, if gently. 

“Hector as well, sadly.” Trained by Chiron as Patroclus had been, he’d been nowhere as good as Hector. 

“Ah. How long has it been?” 

“Nine years since the day you landed.” 

Protesilaus raised his eyebrows. “That long? I thought we would’ve been done in a year or two.” 

“Things got complicated.” Patroclus frowned, flexing his free hand. “I shouldn’t be here.” 

“Why not? You’re a hero as well, aren’t you? The companion of Achilles.” 

“I did an unforgivable thing as a boy.”

“Maybe Lord Hades had second thoughts. Or perhaps someone interceded on your behalf. Either way,” Protesilaus said, clapping Patroclus on his arm, “welcome to Elysium.”

“Thanks,” Patroclus said. He hesitated. “Achilles. Have you seen him?”

“Not yet. That’s a good sign, isn’t it? Now. I’m sorry to rush you on this, given you just woke up here, but there are a lot of shades in here, and I don’t often meet someone I know. Tell me, what happened to my son?” 

“I’ll catch you up,” Patroclus said, “but it’s a long story.”

“We have nothing here to spend but time, friend. Tell you what. I’ll treat you to some ambrosia for the tale, while we wait for Achilles to join us, hm?” 

“Don’t curse him like that,” Patroclus said, though he couldn’t help but chuckle. Elysium’s air smelled so sweet. How long had it been since Patroclus had breathed air this clean? “Ambrosia? I have a story about Achilles and ambrosia. You won’t believe me, though.”

“Try me. Over our second bottle.”

#

The passage of time was challenging to measure, but the wait wasn’t so bad—at first. Death had a strange way of erasing enmity. Patroclus wouldn’t have believed that he would someday be seated at a feast in Elysium, sharing ambrosia with the man who killed him. Hector had been slain in turn by Achilles, of whom there was still no sign.

Patroclus took it to be good luck. Perhaps Chiron’s training and Thetis’ intercessions had changed Achilles’ fate after all. Patroclus took to wandering Elysium by himself, exploring its distant corners. Cataloguing all the prettier or more unusual parts of it that he looked forward to showing Achilles once Achilles finally got here. 

The first inkling that Patroclus had that something was wrong was when he ran into Odysseus playing a game of petteia with Ajax by a stream. Given the two warriors had no love for each other in life, Patroclus drew close out of sheer curiosity, only to be hailed over by Odysseus with a smile. “There’s a friendly face,” Odysseus said, laughing. “Better than my scowling friend here.”

“Shut up and play,” Ajax growled. 

“It’s been years. How is it that I’ve seen Patroclus here drinking and joking around with Hector and you _still_ haven’t forgiven me over being awarded Achilles’ armour? Come on. Besides, I didn’t even keep it. I gave it to his father,” Odysseus said.

Patroclus went very still. “Achilles’ armour? But that means…?” 

Odysseus stared at him in surprise, then at Ajax, who ignored them both in lieu of glaring at the board. “Achilles didn’t survive the war. Shouldn’t he be here? It’s been years. Decades. I died of old age in Ithaca,” Odysseus said.

“He’s here?” Patroclus repeated. He sprinted off, ignoring Odysseus calling for him. Threaded through chamber after chamber in Elysium, calling for Achilles. No one they’d known had seen him, which couldn’t be right. How could the greatest warrior Greece had ever produced not be here? Was it another joke from the Gods? A cruel joke, if that was the case. 

How like the Gods. 

The pain and grief Patroclus bottled up within him burned greater with each day. This was another cruel joke: that even in death, Patroclus could not help but be so human. To feel this fiercely. Patroclus withdrew from the others, haunting the chambers he knew to be empty. Until he finally came to a chamber bisected by a stream, containing little but a great statue. In a certain angle, it looked a little like Achilles. Patroclus stared wearily at it until it ached to do so, then he knelt by the river Lethe, scooping up some of the water and bringing it to his mouth. 

He wished to forget, but there was no forgetting. As Patroclus scooped up more water, Thetis said, “Friend of Achilles.” 

Patroclus looked up. Thetis stood in the river, staring at Patroclus with her hands clenched at her sides. “Lady Thetis.” 

“You don’t deserve to forget,” Thetis said, in a tone as icy as winter melt, her lips pulled up over too-sharp teeth. “You, who were the cause of his doom after all.”

“I… how could that be?” 

Thetis let out a bitter laugh. “A doom greater than what I thought he would meet, even with my gifts. Locked out of Elysium and consigned to the depths.” 

Patroclus gasped. “That’s not possible. Surely Lord Hades—”

“Do not _speak_ to me about Hades,” Thetis hissed, her voice breaking away from any echo of human speech, turning into the roar of a storm-fed surf. She stalked over, curling her hands around Patroclus’ throat. Patroclus choked as Thetis squeezed, clawing at her wrists. “I should kill you over and over for this,” Thetis said, staring into his eyes. 

Patroclus dropped his hands, meeting her stare. “Do it then,” he wheezed. Thetis’ eyes blazed, her grip tightening—then she let him go, sending him choking against the grass. When Patroclus looked up again, Thetis was gone.

#

Grief grew into bitterness. Patroclus lay by the stream, exhausted by both. He ignored most of the visitors who came by to see him. Particularly those he’d known in life. Occasionally, he could hear the noise from the Coliseum, or duels beyond the doors, but Patroclus paid it all little heed. He was tempted to drink again from Lethe, except he knew that it was better to remember it all, now that he could guess what might have happened. Better to hoard his resentment as jealously as he hoarded his anger. What was the point of life after death like this?

The stranger with burning feet who rushed into the glade and broke all the pots at the feet of the large statue briefly startled Patroclus out of his malaise, but only briefly. Bemused, he watched the young stranger approach but said little, handing him some of the gifts that Odysseus had last left beside him while checking in. Zagreus, that was the stranger’s name. Odd-looking being, with his clothes and his eyes—likely a godling of some sort. The thought of it embittered Patroclus to Zagreus. After all, it was the Gods who’d had the last word where Patroclus and Achilles were concerned. 

Zagreus kept returning, polite as always despite anything Patroclus said to him, handing over bottles of nectar. Patroclus didn’t bother saying much by way of thanks—until the day Zagreus appeared with a familiar set of Myrmidon bracers on his wrists. 

It hurt more, not less, to piece together what Achilles had done. Fool. They were both fools.

#

Patroclus sank back into the grass as Zagreus left through a door. He’d told the boy to pass on a message, but now that Zagreus had gone, Patroclus knew better than to hope too hard that something could be done. The Gods did not release people from the bargains they made in good faith, and hope was a luxury that Patroclus had long thought he could no longer afford.

#

“You should speak to your mother,” Patroclus said as he and Achilles watched Zagreus rush off through one of the doors. The burnt footprints Zagreus left on the grass faded in heartbeats.

“I haven’t seen her since, well. Since I was alive.” Achilles looked at Patroclus, his face still wreathed in smiles, curling his arm back around Patroclus’ waist now that they were alone. “Why?” 

“She’s been very disappointed with all your life—and death—choices so far,” Patroclus said, brushing a kiss on Achilles’ throat.

Achilles frowned. “Did she speak to you?”

“Something like that,” Patroclus said. As Achilles’ frown deepened, Patroclus prodded him in the chest. “I would’ve been fine waking up in Tartarus, you fool.”

“Perhaps, but I wouldn’t have been happy with that. If we had to be apart either way, I thought it’d be better like this. Besides. Being in Lord Hades’ service… it hasn’t been all that bad.” 

“Heard you trained Zagreus,” Patroclus said, even as the sounds of battle filtered through the doors, along with the roar of the Coliseum crowd. “He’s been beating Theseus fairly regularly now.” 

“His improvement is more because of his mettle than my teachings,” Achilles said, chuckling. “I certainly didn’t teach him the use of some of the more outlandish weapons he wields.” 

“What does the one shaped like a red and white cylinder do?” 

“You could always ask him to demonstrate. Or challenge him to a duel.” 

“No, no,” Patroclus said, nuzzling Achilles’ cheek. “No more duels. I think I’d like to keep helping him, but the rest? No more.” 

“No more,” Achilles echoed, drawing Patroclus closer as they leaned into each other beside the Lethe, kissing in the shadow of paradise.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @manic_intent  
> donation prompt policy, writing process, original work and book: manicintent.carrd.co


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